Chapter Eleven

ALTHEA BARLOWE, GAbrIELLE'S GRANDMOTHER, ISa soft breeze of a woman. Stout with gray hair piled high on her head. She busies herself around the kitchen, placing a cup of coffee and a bowl of unshelled peanuts in front of Chelsey; a ruby on her right middle finger is dull in the light.

"Thank you." Chelsey sips and works to keep her brow from wrinkling. The coffee is terrible. Too sour.

"Sure, sure," Althea says. A scar bisects her top lip. There is an album in front of her, blue, embossed with a pair of baby shoes. "I was surprised to get the phone call this morning." She seems nervous, apprehensive. Behind her, in the dining room, hangs a wall-to-wall tapestry of The Last Supper and, underneath, a silk arrangement of flowers. "I really didn't expect to hear anything. After they found Gabby, Detective Ross reopened the investigation, but there wasn't enough evidence…" She curls her gnarled fingers around the album. "She said all leads had been exhausted. Never thought I'd hear that phrase twice in my lifetime. First when Gabby went missing and then after her body was found. Anyway, I've put it all to bed. She's buried now. At rest."

Althea flicks a hand behind her, where two kids hang out in an open doorway, unabashedly watching them. "Kayden"—she means the younger one, the boy with dark eyes—"was four when Gabrielle disappeared, and Courtney"—the older lanky teen girl with a sulky appearance—"was just ten. They're nine and fifteen now. Kayden has lived more years without Gabrielle than with her." Althea pauses suddenly in her explanation, as if winded.

"Do you mind if I ask about their parents?" Chelsey asks, filling the silence. "I mean, how you came to raise your grandchildren?" Chelsey places the coffee down and slides it away with her pointer finger.

"Their mother, my daughter Crystal, is… troubled. I don't like to say too much in front of the kids." Althea drops her voice to a whisper. "Alcohol. I got custody of them when Gabby was eight. Their dad didn't want them. Can you imagine? Not wanting your own children? Never imagined I'd be raising kids again at my age." At the exhaustion in Althea's voice, Chelsey nods.

"I see. And what about Gabby? Can you tell me a little about her?" Chelsey opens a notepad, pencil poised.

Althea gives a shallow sigh. "Gabby didn't like all the responsibilities that came with being the oldest. I always told her she'd enjoy having siblings when she was an adult. I used to fight with my sister, but now we're best friends." Althea shrugs. "Perhaps I asked too much of her. The detectives thought we'd fought, that she'd run away. But that wasn't the truth. Gabby was happy. She loved her life." She flips through the album to the back. "Here she is." She rips a photograph from a sticky page and scoots it to Chelsey. "My Gabby. Taken a few days before she disappeared. Wasn't she gorgeous?"

In the photograph, Gabby stands with her sister and brother, his thumb in his mouth. She splays a hand on each of their chests, bent down between their two dark heads. "She'd spend hours making these friendship bracelets. That was the thing then."

Chelsey nods. When she was in high school, it was hair feathers, fishtail braids, and Silly Bandz. Noah says now it's white eyeliner and flannels. The nineties are back. "Gabby was always bubbling up with new ideas about something to do, someplace to go. She was the kind of person girls liked and boys loved… maybe a little too much. She was a pain in the ass, but I loved that little girl."

She was the kind of person girls liked and boys loved. Chelsey notes Althea's affectionate tone. Lydia had been that way, too. Chelsey remembers that precinct picnic again. The boys teasing Lydia but in a different way. Smiling, flirting.

"Detective Ross told me you waited a while before calling the police," Chelsey says, steering the conversation back toward Gabby's disappearance.

Althea stiffens, and Courtney steps forward to place a hand on her grandma's shoulder. "I did," Althea says. "Her grandpa wanted to wait. I shouldn't have listened to him. But I called her friends. I called the neighbors. I even went outside and shouted her name—like I used to when telling her to come in for dinner."

"Why did your husband want to wait?"

"He figured she'd come back on her own. Gabby always ran late. I used to joke that she'd be late for her own funeral." Her laugh is rueful, edged with regret and anger. "He didn't want to be stuck paying for the police fees."

"Is he here now? Can I talk to him?"

"No." Althea sips her coffee. "He lives in Texas now. After Gabrielle disappeared, we… we couldn't stay together. He came home for the funeral, though."

Chelsey understands. Lydia's disappearance was like a knife scraping out the insides of their family until only a delicate shell remained. Was it any wonder it shattered? Chelsey's parents divorced shortly after the funeral. Her mother had wanted to move on. Her father could not. And truthfully, neither could Chelsey. They'd been left behind, living on the jagged edges of never knowing. Yes, Chelsey has had a place to bury her sorrow, but her sister's last days are still a mystery to her.

Althea waves a hand, and Chelsey blinks away the memory. "Anyway, that's all water under the bridge, as they say," she says. "I shouldn't have listened to him. I should have called the police. At the time, I thought it would be okay. I trusted Gabby. I trusted the world would bring her home." She shifts her gaze, staring down into the bottom of her coffee cup. "I guess the truth is, I didn't want to call the police either."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," she says. "Maybe because that would make it true."

They sit in silence for a moment. Visits like these, with the parents of the missing, always make Chelsey less lonely. Their lives bound together by tragedy. The knot so tight, near undoable. Chelsey clears her throat. "I don't know if Detective Ross explained the recent situation—"

"She said there was some new evidence," Althea says.

"A girl was found two days ago who has been missing for two years. She was wearing a piece of clothing we believe may have belonged to Gabby."

Althea straightens. "She was wearing a University of Washington sweatshirt the day she disappeared."

"That's how I traced it. Through One of a Kind Custom College Apparel. There was a number on the back—"

"Fifty-five," says Althea. "Her lucky number. She wanted to play volleyball at University of Washington. That was her dream."

"I've brought it with me today, and I'd like you to verify it if you can." Chelsey had checked it out of the evidence locker before setting out to Tacoma.

Althea nods somberly. "I'll take a look."

Outside Althea's house, Chelsey pops the trunk of her car, closes it, and places the plastic-wrapped sweatshirt on the hood. It's folded backward, number showing. Something flashes in Althea's eyes, and she pales.

"Gabby," she says, reaching for the sweatshirt, intent on unwrapping it.

"Sorry," Chelsey says, intercepting Althea's hand. "It's evidence. You can touch the plastic but not the actual garment."

"Is it hers?" Courtney is outside on the stoop, arms looped around Kayden. A couple of crows land in the yard and peck at the brown grass.

"Take your brother inside," Althea shouts.

Courtney looks ready to argue.

"Now!" Althea snaps out like a rubber band. At that, Courtney grabs her brother's hand and drags him inside.

"Althea?" Chelsey steps closer to her.

Althea's eyes, her whole body, are fixated on the sweatshirt. "We bought it for her for Christmas. She wanted it so bad. That night, we had turkey for dinner and a salad with oil dressing." She thumbs the sleeve, where there is the faintest dark spot. "It stained the sweatshirt, and I tried to get it out." A tear trails down Althea's cheek. "It's hers."

Adrenaline courses through Chelsey, and her arms prickle. She has to remember to be patient. To be calm. To stay in control. "You sure?"

"I'm sure." Althea glances at Chelsey. In the afternoon light, all the lines on her face are perfectly cast, the makeup gathered in the creases.

Chelsey plucks up the sweatshirt, ready to put it away.

"Wait." Althea stops her. "The blood—is it Gabby's?"

Chelsey squeezes the sweatshirt, plastic crinkling. A square of fabric is missing right under the W from the logo, where the lab cut it out to test the blood. "We don't know. The lab is processing it. I've asked for it to be expedited and run against DNA collected from Gabby's case. It's also being tested against Elizabeth Black's DNA—the girl who was found wearing it."

Althea looks up. The sky is cold and shot through with wisps of gray clouds like a piece of marble. "Listen, if you find out, I don't want to know. I don't want to know what happened to Gabby. I don't think I can handle it. She was alive for years, wherever she was. Lord knows what she endured. I can't…" She breaks off with a shudder. Then comes back resolute. "I've buried her now."

"Understood," Chelsey says. That was Althea's right. "But I believe these cases are connected, and this investigation is only starting." Chelsey hesitates to say more. "It's a promising lead."

Althea fixes Chelsey with a stare. "I want him caught." She tugs at her ear. "But I don't want to know what he did to her. I want to remember her as she was before. Does that make me bad?"

"No," Chelsey says. "It makes you human."